


Territorial

by singularthey



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: M/M, Puppy Play, Sex Toys, Watersports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-12
Updated: 2014-03-12
Packaged: 2018-01-15 12:42:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1305268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/singularthey/pseuds/singularthey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve wants to be Tony's good dog, but he also wants Tony to be <i>his</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Territorial

**Author's Note:**

> Written for an [avengerkink prompt](http://avengerkink.livejournal.com/15292.html?thread=34152380#t34152380):
>
>> Steve really likes to play doggy with Tony. He likes to wear the ears, have a (dildo)-plug with an tail that he can swing, likes to have an cockring (occasionally) likes to get cuddled and "walked" and of course to fuck his pretty owner Tony.  
> 
> 
>   
> Features slight dub-con in the form of not discussing a kink beforehand. 

Sometimes, what they do feels ridiculous. He's a being of higher intellect, for God's sake, he shouldn't be reduced to non-verbal slavering and flexing the muscles in his ass to make a silly fake tail wag.

In the moment, though, it never feels ridiculous, silly, strange, or anything but _right_. Even the messiest, most depraved parts of it feel like they were things he was meant to do, to become.

And right now, in this moment, he can't even think for how pleased he is. His master is taking him on a walk. A walk! And sure, he's no normal dog, with his heavily swinging dick and his furless flesh, so his steps on all fours are a little slow and unsure at times, but his master lets him set the pace, and pats him on the head and tells him he's such a good boy.

Well, except when he sprinkles the rug with urine in his excitement. He does get scolded for that, but he can't help himself, really; his bladder is full nearly to bursting and this walk came just in time. With his leash cinched firmly to his collar, the other end held in a sure hand, they set off, his plastic tail wagging high behind him.

They can't go outside, unfortunately, because as dedicated as he may be to his master and his master to him, even his dog-mind knows that other people cannot be a part of what they have. "Maybe someday," his master will sometimes say, but he's perfectly fine with it if that day doesn't come. He likes having his master all to himself.

It does make one particular aspect of their walks slightly awkward, though, and it's always when his master pauses somewhere, giving him an expectant look, that he hears a human voice in his head, asking him if he's sure, if this is really okay, if he's not at his breaking point. But he is a good dog, and he lets his trust in his master wash that voice away.

His master pauses today at a corner, not far from their room and the comfortable bed he loves to lay at the foot of. His master looks at him, and he looks back, and it takes but a moment for him to feel that all-encompassing trust settle in his belly. He sniffs at the corner briefly where it juts out, the walls sharp and pale, and then he lifts his leg.

He is a good dog, but he is a dog nonetheless, even if his aim is not as sure as a normal dog's. He lets out a short spurt of piss on the carpet, adjusts his aim, and pisses for just a second against the wall, a strange pride welling up in him as he does so — but he stops there, feeling his bladder protest as he clenches, lowering his leg. He stays for a moment to examine his mark, sniff at the pungent urine dripping down the wall, and then turns back to his master.

"Good boy," he is told, and his master pats his head, scratching behind his fake-furred ears.

There isn't much to the walk after that, and as they head off towards the bedroom, he feels his cock harden, imagines it emerging from a sheath, proud and red. It doesn't, because he isn't a normal dog, but he knows that his master likes it just as it is.

At the open door, his master drops his leash. They aren't yet done with it, but he's a smart dog, and can walk into the room himself. His master lets him go first, and he begins to enter eagerly, but pauses at the doorframe.

A wave of boldness passes over him, and, bolstered by the pride he felt before, he lifts his leg on the doorway, letting another brief spurt of urine hit the frame. At the corner he had merely used it to say "I have been here," but this was his place, his special home with his master. This time, the piss on the wall said "MINE".

He looks at his master, who sighs, but pats his head again. He wags his tail, then quickly shuffles up to the bed, jumping up on it. His master follows him, dropping onto the thick bedding with a huff before turning his head to smile at him and hold out his hand.

He licks his master's palm, getting a laugh for his efforts. "Come here, Steve," his master says, and he obeys. He buries his head in his master's neck, licking there, and waits for his master's contented sigh.

That sigh always means it is time to begin his favorite activity, even better than their walks. He wags his tail, moves down the bed, and snuffles into his master's crotch, rubbing his nose against the hard length he can feel through baffling fabric. His paws may be odd, but they are paws still; he would not try to use them like human hands. That would make him a Bad Dog, and he does not want to be a Bad Dog.

Not today, in any case.

His master knows exactly what he needs, though, as he always does, and unzips his pants. It's a shame, he thinks, that his master cannot be naked like he is; it would make this go so much faster. But that's what separates his master and himself, and in the end, he loves it, too.

His master holds his cock for him with one hand, letting him sniff and lick at it, drooling on it in his eagerness. His own cock is fully hard now, occasionally knocking about his thighs as he wags his tail harder than ever, enjoying the way the end of it inside him rubs and bumps against his sensitive parts.

In a moment, though, his master has him by the collar, gently tugging him away from his intensely good-smelling crotch. He sits back obediently, waiting for clothes to be removed, set said; waiting a moment longer when his master sits up, digging through a bedside table drawer. He whimpers momentarily when he sees the ring, but with it comes the slick lubricant his master needs in order to be claimed without being hurt.

His thighs quiver as he restrains himself from leaping on his master. His mouth waters, watching his master slip his dexterous fingers into his own ass. He cock practically aches with need as he watches those digits slip into where he wants to be, and he does not need to look down to know there is precome gathering at the tip of it.

It feels like an eternity has passed before his master grabs the end of his leash, repeats, "Come here, Steve," and he can surge forward, licking into his master's mouth.

It is but a brief meeting of tongues, though, before he feels the tug on the leash, and he obediently pulls back, knowing there is more. He whines quietly as his master takes the ring and puts it in place, snug around his balls and erection. A pat on his hip then tells him that he is ready to go, and he shuffles into place, letting his master guide his cock into his waiting hole.

As soon as the head is in, he pushes hard, watching his master for signs of pain. There is some slight discomfort, but not much, not enough to worry about, and the beginnings of pleasure, like what he can feel blooming inside himself.

One he is full seated within his master, he has no hesitation or worry; he pulls back quickly, snapping his hips forward as soon as he likes, thrusting as hard and as wildly as he wants.

His master, by all appearances, loves it; he throws his head back, tells him he is such a good boy, moans in pleasure. His master's thighs are raised high, one leg tucked in slightly around his middle, one hand on his ass, fingers brushing against the base of his tail. The force of his thrusts causes that tail to bob wildly, doing wonderful things to his insides while his master does wonderful things to his cock.

He aches with pleasure and need, thrusting with abandon. His master whispers, "Good boy, Steve, _good_ boy," in his ear, and he shudders with joy. He laps his tongue haphazardly at his master's eyes, his cheek, his prickly beard. His paws, planted firmly on either side of his master's head, clench into the bedding, his claws threatening to tear at the fabric in spite of their dullness.

His master's eyes are wide and dark, locked on him, except for a few moments when they go unfocused, or when he must close them because he feels too good. Steve knows and can understand these things, as he feels them himself; he does not want to stop looking at his master as he falls apart under him, but his world is one of feeling and sensation. Sometimes he wishes he could smell like a normal dog, so he could get the full effect of the arousal rolling off of his master, but he settles for what he can have.

He starts to shift slight every few thrusts, moving his hips slightly this way, slightly that way. When his master chokes out, "Oh, _fuck_ , such a good boy" and his voice breaks, he knows he has it right, knows he is almost there.

He knows he is a good boy when his master's cock jerks against his belly, and feels pleasure deep in his bones when warm, thick come splashes between the both of them.

It is a struggle to slow his thrusts, to stop himself from going on, but he does, looking his master in the face and waiting for him to recover just slightly. He whines when their eyes meet, pleading.

"Not yet," his master says, and tugs on his leash again.

He wishes he could howl, if just so he could have some way to express the intense and conflicting feelings within him: the intense pleasure of fucking his wonderful master, the pride of a job well done, the despair of not being able to finish for himself, the longing for it to be over and for it to never stop.

He begins to thrust again, going at it viciously hard. He makes his thrusts long, pulling out as far as he can stand to before slamming back in. His master moans, sensitive and strung out on his orgasm's end. They continue until his master cannot stand it anymore, tugging urgently on his leash and quickly, with suddenly unsteady hands, removing the ring from around his cock before guiding it back into himself.

His thrusts feel like flying then, one of the greatest pleasures he knows, and he does not have it within himself to draw it out. Between the anticipation of release, the conscious clenching of his master's inner muscles, and the bobbing of his tail, he is lost to lust, and he does not want to be found.

Coming inside his master is the greatest feeling he knows. He thrusts through it as best he can, even though his master is twitching slightly and hissing from it now, but before long he is frozen in pleasure. He slumps slightly, managing just to stay on all fours, and remains there, comfortable inside his master and in his arms.

He knows his master will tug on his leash, so he reluctantly separates himself from him before he can be scolded, scooting down the bed to inspect the scene. At his master's belly he sniffs, then, without hesitation, licks up the come there, amused by the way the muscles under his tongue twitch and flex. He goes down further, licking up the remains of it on and around his cock, just until it is clean.

He finds his destination at his master's hole, his hips still canted up, feet planted firmly now and legs spread to accommodate his size. He breathes deeply, enjoying the scent of his master mixed with the smell of his own orgasm, and again wishes for a normal dog's sense of smell.

But at least he can taste, and so he does, diving in eagerly enough that his master jumps, surprised, before laying back and shivering in pleasure. His tongue probes around his master's ass, lapping up the come that leaks out of him, then pushes in, and he is thankful for the strength of his tongue, that he can fuck his master with it, too. He pushes in, curls his tongue, pulls out his come, and swallows, then repeats. He cannot reach the deepest parts, but once he has his master nearly clean, he is almost satisfied.

Almost.

He has had a strange urge today, one he couldn't identify before, not until he lifted his leg on the doorframe. Now he realizes that he can never do enough to claim his master as his, but he can do _more_. He plants his paws on his master's shoulders, holding him down with his weight, and positions himself over him. With his cock softening slowly, it isn't so hard to let go, and he does fully, now, because there is nothing that is more _his_ than his master.

"Steve!" his master yelps as the first splash of piss hits his belly, but he barely struggles, just does so enough so that he can say he tried. He is not concerned.

His piss splashes over his master's stomach and cock, and he wiggles his hips, letting it spray from side to side, dribble down over his hole, pool in his navel. He pushes it all out, watching himself mark his owner and master, feeling a pleasure not entirely different from coming, both at the release after holding back and at the satisfaction the act brings him.

It is while watching the last drops of urine drip from his cock that Steve comes back to himself, his dog-mind slipping away, and he is, he must admit, slightly horrified at himself.

He just pissed all over Tony, in his _bed_. As though it wasn't bad enough that he pissed in the hallway twice, he created a mess so much worse in the bedroom, with the yellowish, pungent liquid soaking into the bedding.

This is when he feels ridiculous.

"Oh, Jesus," he whispers to himself, letting his arms give out slightly. He buries his head in Tony's shoulder, keeping his hips up, away from the mess — the one he is responsible for himself. _Fuck_. "I'm sorry. I don't know what I—"

"Shhh." Tony puts a hand over his mouth, turns Steve's face towards his. "I admit, that was.... unusual. No, _unexpected_. And I should probably be calling you a bad dog for it."

Something inside of Steve, something hardly human, cowers at that, but he holds his human self firm.

"It wasn't bad, though."

"Your bed is a wreck, Tony. I pissed in your bed. _On purpose_. That's... that's..."

"Kinky?" Tony offered, along with an unapologetic smile. "So what? I have to clean up anyway. I mean, did you think I really had a problem with watersports, after I told you you should piss on my walls?"

Steve doesn't respond. He can recognize the logic there, knows that the whole puppy thing is pretty kinky as it is. He's not actually surprised that Tony's okay with it; he was far more surprised that Tony didn't even blink when he asked if he could be his dog. He still feels ridiculous, though, and tries to moderate that feeling by removing his false ears, tossing them aside.

Tony pats his thigh, knowing it'll take time for him to come to terms with it, and then, without warning, pulls the tail-dildo out. "Come on, you can have your crisis later. We should clean up, and then you should eat me out again when I can get it up. Jesus Christ, Steve, your _tongue_."

Steve isn't sure if "clean up" meant the walls and the bedding or their bodies, but he lets the worry float away, lets himself trust Tony like he did as a dog, and follows his lover.


End file.
